


The Devil's Child

by hecate_01



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:34:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26368015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hecate_01/pseuds/hecate_01
Summary: A glimpse into Erik's childhood spent in the freak show. This was an entry for a fanfic contest.
Kudos: 4





	The Devil's Child

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning: blood and mentions of abuse

The boy – frail, yellow-eyed, and far too small for his age – sits on a bed of bloody hay. He hugs his knees to his chest, awake and aware of every little bump in the dark, lonely night. The day had been too rough on him. His body is black and blue and his wounds are just now beginning to heal, only to be reopened in a few hours. He has another big day tomorrow – he should really get some sleep.

The boy, like most children, hated bedtime. Tomorrow comes far too quickly when you sleep and dreams, strange and fuzzy as they are, hardly ever made an impression on him. He was not given to recollections. They are rather useless, he decided. It frustrated him that he never got to pick what he could dream, either. Far too many times has he gone to sleep, intending to dream of opening a million golden presents underneath an emerald-green pine next to a roaring, cozy fire, with the smell of gingerbread and cinnamon in the air – only to endure some phantasmagoria, ranging from nonsensical to horrific. He gave up on planning such dreams, dismissing their nature as sentimental mush. It’s better to stay awake, anyway.

He’s uncomfortable. It hurts to sleep on his bruised back; the wounds along his arms will reopen if he sleeps on his side; the mask digs into his chafed skin when he sleeps on his chest. So he sits upright as stiff as a statue, afraid to move.

There are no clouds out tonight – he can see the night sky through the bars of his cage. The stars are wonderful, he thinks. They’re chimerical, magnificent, perfect. With their glittering beauty and brilliant glare, how could they possibly be real? But they are, he reminds himself. They’re real and they’re here with him, hanging above his head while the rest of the world sleeps. If he pinches his grubby little fingers this way, he can hold the stars – and even the moon.

The magic that the stars and moon grant to the one who holds them sends an ice-cold shiver up his spine. It cools the hot blood that trickles down his body and numbs the throbbing bruises. Despite his wretched lowliness, he understands their power. Those celestial lights – superior to everything else – have guided lost souls for thousands of years, and have controlled the ebb and flow of the waves for even longer. Although so small and so distant, they rule the world.

When he gets bigger, he thinks, he’ll grapple the moon and pull himself onto its back. With it as his pale steed, he’ll bring the day of reckoning. He’ll seize the stars, shatter them into flaming fractals, and hurl them at the sides of the Earth. He’ll boil the sea and burn the lands – crush the edifices and pulverize the masses. Then they’ll be sorry. They’ll grovel and plead and beg him for merciful compassion and forgiveness.

They’ll say, “Oh, Wonderful Child! Oh, Bearer of Light! Oh, God of this World! We need you! We worship you! We’ll love you forever if you would but spare us!”

“Die!” He’ll spit when he crushes them beneath his foot, as if putting out a cigarette.

He’ll take the remaining star shards and moondust and tailor them to his skeletal frame, wrap himself up, pull the golden curtain over his head and veil his chthonic face, until he is  
nothing but light. Encased within the lavish resin of the stars’ amber glow, he’ll see nothing but beauty; hear nothing but the harmonical chorus of celestial bodies; feel nothing but electric power and mellowed peace.

Under his nebulous presence and iron reign, the world will wither and rot and decay. That’s the price they’ll pay for his vindication, he smiles. A heavy eyelid droops shut – a yellow star sinks beneath the horizon. That grand day lives far beyond the bounds of tomorrow. Until then, he’s the horrible child who sleeps with one eye open.


End file.
